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WINGS 

IN THE NIGHT 






















































































































































































































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J WINGS 
IN THE NIGHT 


BY 

ALICE DUER MILLER J 

Author of “Come Out of the Kitchen,” 
“Ladies Must Live,” etc 



NEW YORK 
THE CENTURY CO. 
1918 




Copyright, 1918, by 
The Century Co. 


Published, March, 1918 


For permission to print some of these poems, the 
author’s thanks are due to the editors of Harper's, 
Scribner's, The Century, The Smart Set, McClure's, 
Collier's, The Masses, The New Republic and the New 
York Tribune. 


t 


\ 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Invocation 3 

The Way 4 

Late Comers 5 

The Heritage 6 

Exile 9 

Harbor 11 

After a Quarrel 13 

Won’t it be Curious? 15 

A Creed 16 

In a School Chapel 17 

The Penitent 18 

The Woman at the Cross-Roads 20 

Song in Exile 24 

Batalha 26 

Easton’s Beach 27 

The Railroad Station 28 

To a Certain Gentleman 29 

House Pets 30 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

To an Old Lady in a Train .32 

Spring 34 

A Bread and Butter Letter 35 

The Party 36 

The History of a Minute 38 

Before Spring 40 

The Stars 41 

To Remorse 42 

The Price of Peace 43 

An American to France 44 

Strange Gods 45 

Newport 46 

Brandon 47 







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WINGS 

IN THE NIGHT 



































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INVOCATION 


Night after night within the grove 

The night wind spares the sacred fire — 

The breath made visible of love, 

Of worship and desire. 

I set the tripod at thy shrine, 

The silver bowl, the amber flame, 

And in the dark where no stars shine 
I speak thy name. 

By the high name I call on thee 

Which only I, thy priestess, know. 

I tread thy dance in ecstasy, 

Sweet steps and slow. 

O God, the hour has come. Appear! 

I have performed the appointed rite — 

The dance, the fire ; I long to hear 
Wings in the night. 

3 


THE WAY 


There is a magic pathway through the wood, 
There is a current in the troubled stream, 
A happy course to steer, if one but could, 

A meaning to the dream. 

And some in love and some in dogma find 
The hint eternal as they kiss or pray; 

Some through the crystal circle of the mind 
Discern the way. 

And some no hint, no pattern of the whole, 

Nor star, nor path, nor channel can perceive 
Attempt no answer to the questing soul, 

And yet believe 

There is a magic pathway through the wood, 

A quiet current in the troubled stream, 

A happy course to steer, if one but could, 

A meaning to the dream. 


4 


LATE COMERS 


Oft on my way, my daily task pursuing, 

Meet I two fairy figures face to face. 

Beauty and Peace, who smile on me, embuing 
All else I see with something of their grace. 

Not in my youth did I their shapes discover, 

Not in those hours of transport and despairs, 

Rather they come now that high noon is over, 

And like sweet ghosts they make the twilight theirs. 

Constant and shy, they seek those spirits only 
Who have made silence for their soft behests; 

Whose garnished thresholds, welcoming and lonely, 
Faithful await the long desired guests. 


5 


THE HERITAGE. 


On summer evenings when the full moon shines 
Serene and fair, 

High in the crystal air, 

On hillsides deep in birches and in pines, 

Then in all hearts there stirs a hidden fire 
Of hope, or memory; 

Some their beloved dead more yearningly desire, 
Some dream of loves to be, 

Some weep their swift and sweet mortality. 

But I remember only, 

Long centuries ago, 

A glen more dark and lonely 
Than these which now I know; 

The noise of waters flowing, 

And fain,t, salt breezes blowing, 

Ivy and myrtle growing, 

As here they do not grow. 

6 


THE HERITAGE 


7 

There, when the moon was at full we would come, we 
would come, 

To the shrilling of pipes, and the terrible tone of the 
drum 

Rolling long, rolling loud, as the voice that presages 
the rain, 

We would come to the cavern profound, to the holy 
domain. 

Then in the moonlight entrancing, 

Figures moved agile and fleet. 

Then there was dancing, ay, dancing, 

Leaping and stamping of feet, — 

Dancers that drifted and darted, 

Light as a leaf in the breeze. 

Circles that met and that parted. 

While the stars danced through the trees. 
Quickening, the drums beat the measure, 

All the night long on the hill, — 

Such was the Thunderer’s pleasure. . . . 

This I remember me still. 

O placid northern moon on this calm lake 
Beaming demure and tame, 


8 


THE HERITAGE 


How can I take 

Aught of delight in thy pale flame? 

I ache 

For a communion I have known 
Long centuries ago, 

Which nevermore the world will seek, or know; 
For a belief outgrown, 

Yet how much more my own 

Than creeds that hold me quiet on my knees; 

For rites that brought delights like these, 

And Gods I once knew how to please. 


EXILE 


I 

At dead of night about the dying fire 
They told a story how the dead appear; 

And men, grown still with fear, 

Forgot their old desire 
For those who once were dear. 

And shook and trembled lest their dead be near. 

Alas, poor dead who were so sweet and human ! 

How are you grown a menace and a blight — 

A thing to shun, a thing of evil omen, — 

Stealing unwelcome through the halls of night? 
Who knows? perhaps yourselves are much affrighted, 
And struggle back, remote and bodiless, 

Fearful of sounds unheard, visions unsighted, 

Black echoes, and the bitter loneliness. 

But for me , in my heart is no dread 
Of the coming again of the dead, 

9 


10 


EXILE 


But a terror of life, without one 

Who made life to he life — and is gone . 

II 

Yes, at these tales of how the dead return, 

Hope stirs within my spirit more than fear. 

So strange, so strange it seems, you are not here, 

And so unnatural to me ’tis to learn 

The trick of life without you, year by year, 

That not so strange could any specter be 
Or fall of footsteps on the empty stair, 

Or shapes discerned upon the shadowy air, 

As is this haunting sense of vacancy. 

And your persisting absence everywhere. 

Ah, could I see, as in the tranquil past. 

The form I long for — always and in vain, — 
Should I not cry, like one released from pain: 

“ Dear and long absent, you return at last. 

And life its natural aspect wears again ! ” 


HARBOR 


And will you rest at last, storm-beaten spirit, 

In this poor heart, who would your haven be, 
Will you sink down at last, content to inherit 
The common treasures of tranquillity? 

Will you forget your high and fierce endeavor. 
The hinted island and the hidden seas, 
Defeats, escapes, adventures, that forever 
Left you more sad, and never more at ease? 


When the west wind on summer evenings blowing 
Brings to your ears the sound of sails that fill. 

And moving ships eclipse your starlight, going 
To lands unseen, and fates that beckon still; 

When you shall see beneath the moon new risen, 

The hissing wake of other vessels’ foam, 

Will not this land-locked harbor seem a prison 
Where calms and shallows mock the name of home? 


ii 


12 


HARBOR 


Ah, when your longing for the open ocean 

Captures your heart, and bids you set your sail, 
Feeble will be the bonds of my devotion; 

Little will love — your own or mine — avail: 
Happy to you will seem some ship-wrecked stranger, 
Keener than love the zest of being free, 

Sweeter than peace, the summoning of danger; — 
Some day at sunrise you will put to sea. 


AFTER A QUARREL 


We have quarreled; ugly things have been said, 
Bitter things, in a tone controlled, well-bred, 
Temperate; we weighed our words, lest the lust 
Of cruelty lose the edge of being just. 

We have quarreled over a trifle, one of those trifles 
That strike their roots to the very heart of each. 

To the cold and earthy places where even love stifles, 
And kindness and friendly habit cannot reach; 

Those unexplored vaults of the spirit, black, unknown, 
Where each is a king, but a king ashamed, alone, 
Afraid of the world, afraid of friend and foe. 

Oh, human creatures must quarrel, my dear, I know; 
But if we must, let ’s quarrel for something great, 

For something final and dangerous — mastery, hate, 
Freedom, or jealousy, virtue, death, or life: 

For then two loves leap up on the wings of strife 
Into the sun and air of their own souls’ sight, 


13 


14 


AFTER A QUARREL 


Locked together, joined, putting forth all their might 
That love may survive or fail, or perish or win, 

But perish not for a trifle. That is sin. 


WONT IT BE CURIOUS? 


Won’t it be curious when I am dead; 

Some one, unknown to me, here in my stead? 

Curious surely for others to see 
Trifles I made or marred outlasting me; 

All my possessions — bracelets and rings, 

Young and unaltered like immortal things. 

Young and unaltered, always the same 

Changeless the lamp though we blow out the flame. 


T5 


A CREED 


Courage to ask of love neither sign nor token, 

Wisdom to wait, silence and faith are better; 

Fear, not alone lest the bond be some day broken, 
But that love, too desperately dear, become a fetter. 


t6 


IN A SCHOOL CHAPEL 


The clear young voices rise and soar: “ Oh, pray 
Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: they 
Shall prosper that love thee.” Yet each boy’s heart 
Harbors the hope that he may have a part 
In war — the roar of guns, the roll of drums — 
Before this anthemed peace he prays for comes. 

But in the quiet gallery above 

Where eyes grown dim look down on those they love 
The prayer for peace rings true; although in truth 
Worse things than death can come to eager youth. 
But nothing worse can come to age than knowing 
That it is safe, and boys are going, going, 

Are going forth to war till all wars cease: 

The old, so safe and lonely, pray for peace. 


1 7 


THE PENITENT 


Never/’ he said, “ nevermore, 

In the murmuring stillness of night 
Shall I wait for her hand on my door, 
Confident, light; 

Still is the night as before, 

And the stars unforgettably bright. 

Once from the deep woodland calms 
At midnight a wild wind broke, 

Shaking the cedars and palms 
And the silver-gray oak ; 

And she, who had slept in my arms, 

Suddenly woke. 

Pity me then, for it blew 
Last night again from the woodlands so deep, 
Where mosses and moisture and dew 
Verdure eternal keep; 

18 


THE PENITENT 


19 


From the brooks and the glades that we knew. 
It woke me from sleep. 

“ How can she know and refrain ? 

How being mine can she leave me like this ? 
Go, when this only is plain, 

Life is no more than our kiss — 

Life is so lavish of pain, 

So niggard of bliss ! ” 


THE WOMAN AT THE CROSS-ROADS 


(Her lover speaks.) 

An equal love between a man and woman, 

This is the only charm to set us free, 

And this the only omen 
Of immortality. 

Only for us, the long, long war is over 
Between our aspiring spirits, 

And all the flesh inherits, 

Because, dear saint, your soul no less 
Has got a lover, 

Than has your body’s long slim loveliness. 

Ah, my beloved, think not renunciation 
Of such a love as ours 

Will bring you any strengthening of your powers, 
Or calm, or dignity, or peace of mind 
To be compared with that which you will find 
In love’s full consummation. 

Talk not to me of other, older ties, 


20 


THE WOMAN AT THE CROSS-ROADS 21 


Of duty, and of narrower destinies, 

Nor bid me see that we have met too late, 

While we have lips and eyes 
To kiss and call; 

But rather thank our fate, 

For this mad gift — that we have met at all. 

Come to me then. Ah, must I bid you come? 

Your heart is mine. Is then your will so loath? 
Leave him from whom your spirit long since fled, 
Whose house is not your home; your only home, 
Although the same roof never cover both, 

Is where I am, until we both are dead. 

( Her child speaks.) 

Why do you look at me with such a shade 
Upon your eyes, so still and steadily? 

I am not naughty, but I am afraid; 

I know not why. 

The world is huge and puzzling and perverse — 

Even my nurse, 

When most my heart is stirred, 

Will put me by, with some complacent word; 

Or, if she listens, in a little while 


22 THE WOMAN AT THE CROSS-ROADS 


Babbles my deepest secret with a smile. 

My mother, oh my mother, only you 
Are kind and just and honorable and true. 
Others are fond, others will play and sing, 

Will kiss me, or will let me kiss and cling; 

But only you, my mother, comprehend 
How little children feel and love the truth ; 

Only you cherish like an equal friend 
The shy and tragic dignity of youth. 

( The woman answers her lover.) 

All my life long I think I dreamt of this. 

Even as a girl, my visions were of you. 

Alas, I grew incredulous of bliss; 

And now too late, too late, the dream comes true. 
Sweet are the charms you offer me, my lover, 

To read the riddle of the universe. 

And in your arms I should not soon discover 
Our old, old mortal curse. 

And yet I put them by, because I trust 
In other magic, far beyond the ken 
Even of you, the tenderest of men, — 

In spells more permanent than any sorrow, 


THE WOMAN AT THE CROSS-ROADS 23 


Which bind me to the past, and make to-morrow 
My own, although I sleep it through in dust, — 
The revelation which to every woman 
Her children bring, 

Making her one, not only with things human, — 
With every living thing. 

For only mothers raise no passionate cry 
Against mortality; 

For only they have learnt the reason why 
It is worth while to live ; and presently, 

Seeing Nature’s meaning, are content to die. 


SONG IN EXILE 


The rustling palms bend readily 
Between the sun and me; 

The trades blow warm and steadily 
Across the turquoise sea; 

But I’d rather feel the March wind bite 
In the country of the free. 


Hibiscus and camellias 
Bloom here abundantly, 

And roses and gardenias — 

The sweetest flowers there be — 

But I’d rather see through the bare north woods 
One bridal dogwood tree. 


The tropic light is mellow 
As a lamp in a lighted room; 

24 


SONG IN EXILE 


25 


The sun shines high and yellow 
In the quivering cloudless dome; 

But, oh, for the snow and the cruel cold 
And the rigors of my home! 


BATALHA 


In this still cloister where the roses grow 
Waist-high between the arches and the well, 

You would have walked a thousand years ago, 

So faithful, who are now so infidel; 

You would have fancied your wild heart’s emotion 
Over the beauty of a scene like this, 

A mystic piety, a pure devotion — 

And so, perhaps, it is. 


Under the shade of column and of tracing, 

Here in the dusk, where swallows dart and fly, 
Barefoot and cowled, I think I see you pacing, 
Brooding o’er thoughts of subtle mystery; 
Fasting and prayer, and music and desire 
Weaving a mood that men no longer know — 
Oh, yes, my dear, you would have been a friar, 

A thousand years ago. 

26 


EASTON’S BEACH 


Last night I saw a city by the sea, 

Outlined in sparks of fire; 

Those wreathed lamps made all a fantasy — 
Arch, dome and spire. 

I saw above the waters pale and gray, 

The pale moon stand, 

I heard, but faint and sweet and far away, 

A martial band. 

The distant voices in the streets, the sound 
Of laughter from the towers 

Made where we swam the solitude profound 
The sea was ours. 


2 7 


THE RAILROAD STATION 


Just a very common thing — 

Shouts and whistles, bells that ring, 
Just a platform in the rain 
And a slowly moving train; 

Just a woman dressed in black 
Standing by a station-hack, 

Gazing with her eyes profound 
As the train goes outward bound; 
And her bearing does not say 
Who it is that goes away, 

One who made her pulses stir, 

Or a guest who wearied her. 


TO A CERTAIN GENTLEMAN 


(“ Women are often tempters to sexual sin and delight in it. 
... A recent report of a female probation officer relates that 
some of the girls who, as we may say euphemistically * had gone 
astray,’ owned to her that they enjoyed the life of the evil house.” 
— The Case Against Woman Suffrage, published by the Man-Suf- 
frage Association Opposed to Political Suffrage for Women.) 

It may be so, good sir, it may be so. 

Not all who sin are tempted — that we know: 

It may be darker things than this are true. 

And yet, upon my soul, if I were you — 

A man, no longer young, at peace, secured 
From all that tempting women have endured 
Of poverty and ignorance and fear 
And joy that make youth terrible and dear, 

If I were you, before I took my pen 

And wrote those words to hearten other men, 

And give them greater sense of moral ease 
In the long score of common sins like these, 

If I were you, I would have held my hand 
In fire. 

Ah, well; you would not understand. 

29 


HOUSE PETS 


The white cat is sleeping by the fire, 
With her paws tucked under her chin. 
Very tame and gentle she is sleeping 
Whom I saw but now come in, 


Come in from the dark night and the wild wood, 
A hunter with her prey she came. 

And her chin and her little paws were bloody, 
And she was not kind and tame. 

But wild and strong and cruel with her victim, 
For she let it go, and caught it as it ran, 

And she tossed it in the air and danced about it, 
And once she stood erect like a man. 


30 


HOUSE PETS 


3i 


And I thought, “ what wild things are they that we 
harbor, 

Who bend to the routine of daily life ; ” 

And I looked across the room and by the fire 
I saw my sleeping wife. 


TO AN OLD LADY IN A TRAIN 


Her hair was beautifully white 
Beneath her bonnet, black as night, 
Which, plainly of New England kin, 

Was tied with strings beneath her chin. 
And when she spoke I had no choice 
But listened to that soft crisp voice; 

And when she smiled, I saw the truth, 
She had been lovely in her youth, 

And with those quick, observing eyes, 

Was charming still to all the wise. 

And still, in spite of bonnet strings, 

She thought keen, quaint, amusing things, 
With gaiety that many hold 
Remarkable in one so old. 

We talked ten minutes in a train, 

And when we came to part again, 

“ Good-bye, enjoy yourself,” said she, 

32 


TO AN OLD LADY IN A TRAIN 


33 


I told her that ahead of me 
No pleasure beckoned, no, I said, 
Stern duty only lay ahead ! 

“ Oh, well,” her parting answer ran, 
“ Enjoy yourself the best you can.” 
And so unconquerably gay, 

She went upon her darkening way. 


SPRING 


“ Yes, Spring has come,” the grocer said, 
And tied a final knot of string, 

Rang up the change and becked his head, 
Elated at the breath of Spring. 

“Yes, Spring has come,” the poet said. 
And poured his ecstasy in rhymes, 
Which eager, homesick exiles read, 

Long winter-locked in frozen climes. 

Perhaps the grocer’s way was best, — 

If joy can better be, or worse: 

He saved his rapture unexpressed, 

The poet spent his for a verse. 


34 


A BREAD AND BUTTER LETTER 


There is a willow grows beside a pool; 

Its long gray branches sweep the marble rim; 
And from those waters shadowy and cool, 

The stars shine, large and dim. 

From open valleys filled with little lakes 
All through the night a hundred breezes blow, 
All through the night the little willow makes 
A whispering soft and low. 

Here in the dusty street there are no trees 
To whisper, and the sky is dark and gray, 

And yet I see the stars, I feel the breeze, 

So far, so far away. 


35 


THE PARTY 


The house is bright with lights and lights, 

Like a palace in the Arabian Nights, 

Lights in festoons and lights in clusters, 

In chandeliers and crystal lustres; 

And all the length of the stairs’ broad way, 
Tapestries green and pink and gray 
Tell a story of ladies’ bowers 
Hung with apples and paved with flowers; 

And beyond, an open arch discloses 
An inner garden of palms and roses, 

With lines of lilies against the walls. 

And a fountain that falls — and waits — and falls. 
And from the ballroom comes the beat 
Of dance music and dancing feet, 

And through the doorways of gold and glass 
Figures of dancers pass and pass, 

Lovely creatures in dripping laces, 

And all have sad, unhopeful faces. 

36 


THE PARTY 

One person only yields to joy, 

And he is a footman — a round-faced boy — 
Stiff in a livery of black and green, 

And he laughs at something heard or seen, 
Laughs with a loud and lonely gladness, 
Laughs perhaps at the dancers’ sadness; 

He only seemed for an instant gay, 

And he was instantly sent away. 


37 


THE HISTORY OF A MINUTE 


I saw a lady on the stair, 

And she was, oh, so strangely fair, 

With a knot of butter-colored hair, 

And a waiting, listening, wondering air. 

She was tall as a lady ought to be, 

And down she looked and smiled at me. 

Her eyes were queerly brightly blue 
As the bit of sky that last shines through 
The gathering clouds, oppressive, gray, 

On a chilly windy Autumn day. 

There she paused on the stairs and smiled 
Like a child who sees another child 
With whom it would dearly like to play 
If it only could get its nurse away. 

And I know not what divine surmise 
Leapt up like fire in my eyes, 

But I know her smiling suddenly stopped, 

38 


THE HISTORY OF A MINUTE 


39 


And a curtain between us blankly dropped, 
And she passed me by as if I were 
A man invisible to her. 


BEFORE SPRING 


Fare you well, who love the highways, 
Love the cities, tall and bright. 

For the forest ways are my ways, 

And the birds’ songs my delight, 

And the stars in river byways 
Are my only lamps by night. 

I shall see the Spring awaking 
While you think it winter still. 

Watch the brittle ice forsaking 
Edge of marsh and pool and rill. 

And the little willows making 
Yellow mists against the hill. 

Go you to the things you care for, 
Violins with trembling string, 

Jewels that men do and dare for, 

Every lovely, man-wrought thing; 
They have caught your spirit, therefore 
You have left me ere the Spring. 

40 


THE STARS 


Only the stars remain to travelers’ eyes 
Unalterable; the waters change their hue 

Beneath the flattery of alien skies 
From jade to silver and from bronze to blue. 

Sunrise and sunset spread their lovely light 
As slow as solemn music in the North; 

But southward, like a dart descends the night, 

And like a meteor the day breaks forth. 

And faiths and manners vary — friends, they say, — 
And even lovers of a constant mind; 

Not the light loves we meet upon our way 
But those enchained by vows we left behind. 

Only unchanged the patterned stars endure, 

As when they first assured or threatened man; 

Still Vega glitters, crystalline and pure, 

Still like an angry eye Aldebaran. 

41 


TO REMORSE 


Magic for fitful souls whose aim is still 
Pleasures that forfeit not the mansions blest, 

Who deem themselves absolved to approve the best 
While they, protesting hate, pursue the ill; 

Who lack strength to attain or else lack will 
To keep what was their will’s supreme behest; 

Daring in dreams but fearful of the test 
When Time and Fate their dearest wish fulfil. 

I will not taste of thy pale anodyne; 

I will not alter, listening to a voice 
That tells me joys immortal may be mine 
Were I but traitor to my clearest choice. 

Courage I count above all gifts of thine — 

Courage or to refrain or to rejoice. 


42 


THE PRICE OF PEACE 


Long since I taught my spirit to obey 
The Sage’s great commandment — to forget — 
And so to lose life’s bitterness and fret 
And taste its sweetness; and I went my way 
Eluding joy and sorrow, grave and gay, 

And lived exempt, my being always set 
Upon the striking hour, without regret, 

Secure, refreshed, remote from yesterday. 
But oh my friend, my love, my very dear, 

My practised wisdom is a curse to me; 

I do forget, and when you are not near 
It is, by Heaven, as if you ceased to be ; 

And I would buy with agony and fear 
One hour, one little hour of memory. 


43 


AN AMERICAN TO FRANCE 


O France, with what a shamed and sorry smile 
We now recall that in a bygone day 
We sought of you art, wit, perfection, style; 

You were to us a playground and a play. 

Paris was ours — its sudden green edged spaces 
And sweeping vistas to the coming night. 
Brocades and jewels, porcelains and laces — 

All these we took for leisure and delight. 

And all the time we should have drunk our fill 
Of wisdom known to you and you alone, 
Clear-eyed self-knowledge, silent courage, will; 
And now too late, we see these things are one: 
That art is sacrifice and self-control, 

And who loves beauty must be stern of soul. 


44 


STRANGE GODS 


The great religions, like men great of mind, 
Draw to them even those of hostile view. 
Many a barbarian in Athens knew 
The temple porches who was grossly blind 
To any god save one long left behind — 

Some hideous idol on a mountain blue, 

For whom his heart ached, timorous and true, 
And, lonely in the Parthenon, repined. 

But home returning over difficult seas 
To his own people, had he no regret? 

No envy for those Greeks who bent their knees 
Only where beauty and religion met? 

Could he forget the temple and the trees? 
Could he the grey-eyed Pallas so forget? 


45 


NEWPORT 


On these brown rocks the waves dissolve in spray 
As when our fathers saw them first alee. 

If such a one could come again and see 
This ancient haven in its latter day, 

These haughty palaces and gardens gay, 

These dense, soft lawns, bedecked by many a tree 
Borne like a gem from Ind or Araby; 

If he could see the race he bred, at play — 

Bright like a flock of tropic birds allured 
To pause a moment on the southward wing 
By these warm sands, and by these summer seas — 
Would he not cry, “ Alas, have I endured 
iixile and famine, hate and suffering, 

To win religious liberty for these?” 


BRANDON 


The house is empty, and the garden alley, 

A shadowed aisle of linden and of yew, 

A marble vase, a glimpse of river-valley — 
Translucent white against transparent blue — 

A mystery of boxwood and of byway, 

Beneath barred windows and unopened door, 

And far below the river like a highway 
Sweeps on, but brings no travelers any more. 
Beauty alone is constant; where she chooses 
A dwelling-place, there would she ever stay; 
Fortune and friends and fashion though it loses, 
Beauty more faithful does not pass away, 

But most deserted, most herself she seems, 

Left to her deep and solitary dreams. 


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